


Conductor of Light

by Cargot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Kink Meme, Mind Palace, Season/Series 03 Compliant, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cargot/pseuds/Cargot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not in Sherlock's mind palace- at least, not where expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conductor of Light

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme prompt: "I find it interesting that we've been shown so many people appearing in Sherlock's mind palace - Mycroft, Molly, Irene, Moriarty, even Anderson - but not John. Sherlock heard his voice inside his head in TEH, so we know John's got to be in there somewhere. But where does Sherlock keep him? And when does John come out to play if not to help Sherlock survive from a mortal wound?
> 
> Take this anywhere you want - to a lush sex dungeon or a secret treasure vault hidden in the deepest reaches of the palace. Just make me feel. :)"

Mycroft perches on the worst kitchen chair, dripping annoyance in great puddles on the floor. "By all means, little brother- take your time," he says. "I know how hard this... sort of thing can be, for you." He's shifting- wiggling, almost- with a frequency approaching aerobic activity for someone of his lassitude. His piles must be acting up; _good_.

"Shut. Up." Sherlock is ripping apart a storage locker in his mind palace, methodically and completely dismembering the collection of shop-window mannequins in which he had (stupidly) secreted the components of the Code of the Ersatz Turk. He slows his breathing, wills his andrenergic response to Mycroft's unbearable presence to ease.

Sherlock's mind is not a palace. Despite the childish, nagging feeling that he has let down every great Western thinker from old Simonides through Cicero and on to his brother in doing so, there are whole wings of his memory that have been simply boarded up and walked away from, left to rot. There are garbage skips and junkyards; there is a seaside souvenir shop dedicated to the known collections of specific serial killers, arranged by type and usefulness.

He abandons the mannequins and returns to the Office, his central repository for the Work, only to find himself standing in an alarming square of sunlight. He turns; a window has appeared in the wall of the Office. For a moment, he is struck dumb. There is a voice from behind: the army doctor. John. "Sherlock, have you seen this?"

The words hang in the air, lining up like sentient dust motes in the impossible sunbeam, drawing a line down to his feet. There, beside his shoe, is a pink sticky note, with one word on it. He stoops, turns it over in his hands: it is perfect. It is more than perfect. It is everything he needs, and Mycroft is going to _choke on it_.

By the time he opens his eyes, he is halfway to his coat. "We haven't got much time! Oh, that was good, that was very, very good." He's nearly cleared the stairs when he hears Mycroft begin rolling his way toward the door. He turns. "Take your time, Mycroft. I know how hard this sort of thing can be, for you."

When the case is over, Sherlock lies on the sofa, returns to his memory palace, and stands in the sunbeam. Just for a while. No one needs to know.

As John accompanies him on more cases, his renovations to the memory palace increase. Here, a window; there, a spotlight. A candle. A glowstick. A blacklight. A row of elegant sconces, illuminating a hallway Sherlock never noticed before. A warm voice: "Sherlock what's that? What does that mean? Who did that? Have you looked over here?" But never _John_. He can conjure a homunculus of Irene Adler without trying; he can count the everywhere-decreasing number of hairs on his brother's head (probably. If he wanted to). He can call to mind every detail about John; he knows his body composition; the sizes, weights, and fabrics of his clothing; his habits, his irritations, his injuries (physical and emotional). He knows more about John's young life than John would feel comfortable discussing. And while he can call to mind any number of things about John, he can only _see_ John when he is physically present. This is a maddening handicap, but it is circumvented easily enough by insisting on the continued physical presence of Dr. John Watson.

It is the destiny of all crutches to be kicked out from under one at the least convenient moment. So it goes with John, who has to stay in London while Sherlock's dead. John's absence is... distracting. Infuriating. Occasionally even nauseating. John's voice sounds more and more like a recording, eventually obtaining the underwater warble of a low-bitrate download. The lights begin to wink out. And if some small, dangerous, weak part of Sherlock weeps- no one needs to know.  
  
As he eventually, wearily, heads for London, Sherlock grows a dream like a tumor. Even as he is aware of its lethal amounts of sentiment, it metastasizes, spreading through his thoughts until he can no longer argue with the truth of it: John will turn the lights back on. He will reunite with John, who will have some sort of emotions at him, but then settle down. John will be in his chair; John will make tea; John will ask perfect, stupid questions. Sherlock will be a genius, and he will never, ever be dead again. The nausea will subside. And John will light up the memory palace like a forest of metal halide lamps, like an operating theater on the sun. It will be _brilliant_.  
  
As John throttles him on the carpet of a posh restaurant, Sherlock is humble enough to admit to himself that he may have acted rashly. But there's a prawn-shaped nightlight in the Office, suddenly; and if he could breathe, he'd never stop laughing.


End file.
